Nightwalking

 

Midnight on Shorts Lane.

The new car is parked snugly by a wall.

As soon as I turn the engine off I hear owls.

Not just one owl -

There seem to be several of them.

Night's timeless soundtrack.

No need for my fleece.

It is a warm night between two hot days.

The Buck Moon is rising

But still low as it climbs over Totley Moor.

It offers little illumination

As I walk along the valley of Blacka Brook

Under the arching trees

To the stepping stones.

Walking up to Lenny Hill

I can hear my own heart beat

Thumping in my head.

This is a route I have often plodded

But never before in the depths of night.

I have a little torch

For the pools of darkness.

There are tree roots and hollows.

I don't want to go tumbling down

Through the bracken.

Who would find me?

Da-dum-da-dum-da-dum goes my heart.

Up to the new bench on Lenny Hill

In memory of teacher Trish Brooks.

Breast cancer - that over-familiar marauder.

I sit and observe the stars

As my heart beat quietens.

Is that a satellite up there or an aeroplane?

What I am doing seems almost illicit.

Walking at night.

That's all.

I reach tarmac - Strawberry Lee Lane.

As anticipated, no need for the torch now.

Strolling along in the single headlight

That is The Buck Moon.

They say it was so named

Because by this time of year

Stags' antlers were fully grown.

The night air is delicious -

I breathe it in like honeysuckle.

Somewhere far away a dog is barking.

Soon I arrive once more at Totley Bents

"The Cricket Inn" is just a silhouette.

I hear voices by the cottages at Bents Farm.

A woman jumps in alarm

When she spots me.

They are care workers from foreign lands.

After putting an old lady to bed

They are getting in their little car.

Off to their next job.

I wonder if they have care workers

In Somalia and Sierra Leone?

After Avenue Farm I reach Redcar Brook

But there's no water at all

Just the rocks over which it is meant to burble.

A brambly briar attacks me

Causing a little blood.

Vengefully, I trample it down.

Under the trees, my silver torch is required again 

I tread with trepidation.

Minutes later I am over the old stone stile.

Back on silent Shorts Lane

The Buck Moon floats like a balloon

Painting sheep pastures with its heavenly light.

Are we allowed to worship the moon any more?

At least it is real and majestic.

Our forebears looked up to  the very same orb.

It's 1.22am and I am back at the car.

Then through the sleeping village of Dore

And back to our street - houses without lights.

The nightwalker is home again.